The Breakfast of Champions Consulting Detectives
by SocietalFlub
Summary: Sherlock will have John go to great lengths to get chocolate-hazelnut spread. Because a delicious, not-so-balanced breakfast is what fuels the world's only consulting detective. It sure ain't Wheaties, I'll tell ya that. K plus for mild swears courtesy the doctor


'John, can you make me breakfast?' called Sherlock from his place at the desk.

John, who had been coming down the corridor, crossed the threshold and entred the sitting room, rolling his eyes. He made his way to his armchair, tiptoeing to avoid knocking over Sherlock's newly-aquired stacks of newspapers from Thailand that were strewn about the flat (he needed them for a case, apparently, though John failed to see why Sherlock needed so many).

'No, Sherlock. You know very well how to make it yourself.' John was long-since accustomed to Sherlock's incessant laziness and so was prepared for whatever reason Sherlock had procured that morning—or so he thought.

'I do not. Everytime I make it, it burns and I make a mess which just makes you even more cross than you usually are with me. I should think that you would want to save yourself a headache and do it yourself.'

John looked up from his newspaper—this one was English—and set it on his lap, ready for battle.

'Well, there are quite simple solutions to your supposed dilemas: the toaster is at the same setting from when I made your breakfast yesterday, so it definitely won't burn (thanks for not eating it, by the way, really appreciated that), and as far as making a mess goes, just _be careful._'

'But John, it always tastes better when _you_ make it.'

John pressed his lips together, returning to his paper. 'You'd better be glad I'm not preparing your food, because if I were, I'd probably poison it.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and, realising his best friend still wasn't giving in, pouted.

Not even needing to look at Sherlock, John knew exactly the expression Sherlock was pulling. 'Don't you make that face at me, Sherlock. You're a grown man. Make your own breakfast!'

With a 'hurumph,' Sherlock pushed away from the desk rather dramatically and stormed off to the kitchen with his nose in the air, jaw set in a defiant frown.

'John!' A pause. 'JOOOHN!'

'What?! What could possibly be wrong now?'

'John, we're out of Nutella!'

'And?'

'How the hell am I supposed to make a chocolate-chip-waffle and Nutella sandwich without Nutella?'

'Sherlock, they've not discontinued Nutella, just go buy another jar for God's sake.'

'Can you go to the shop for me?'

John looked to the ceiling, asking it why Sherlock had been thrust apon him like this.

'And why, pray tell, can't you?'

'I've got... things to do.'

'I wasn't planning on going out today.'

'That's funny.'

With closed eyes, John counted to ten under his breath. 'What's funny?'

'I thought you would have been happy that I actually want to eat, especially considering I've not eaten in, oh gosh, four days. You know very well that this hunger of mine won't last. What if we were to get a case in the time it would have taken you to have gone to the shop, bought me my Nutella, and made my breakfast? Then my hunger would have evaporated and you would feel guilty knowing that you could have gotten something in me if only you hadn't been so stubborn.'

'_I'm _the stubborn—you know what, sod it. FINE. I'll get you your damn Nutella. But this is the last time!'

Forcefully yanking on his coat, John knew that they were both aware that this wouldn't be the last time.

'Anything else, _your highness_?'

'Yes, a little less sardonicism, if you please.'

The door slammed shut.

An hour had passed when John finally returned to the flat—luckily Sherlock hadn't gotten any calls from Lestrade in that time.

'Where've you been? I'm starving,' whined Sherlock.

Seething, John stormed into the flat. 'I,' he panted, his anger making him breathless, 'have been to hell and back. Oh, but don't worry, I got your precious Nutella.'

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a single jar from his coat and slammed it on the kitchen table where Sherlock was sat at his microscope.

'Apparently Whistlestop is out of Nutella, so I had to catch another cab to AD, but _they_ didn't have it either_._ From there I went to Alisha, where, hallelujah, they had Nutella galore! Seventh Station to Dorset to Paddington back to Baker Street, you would not _believe _how bloody exhausted I am of hailing cabs. Oh, but it doesn't end there! My credit card was rejected and I had exactly one pound thirty-three in cash, so I had to find an ATM.

'And now, I am here, with your sodding Nutella. You better damn well savour it.'

'Actually, I'm rather in the mood for an omlette. Can you make me one?'

**A/N (from 9 March, 2013): In making my own breakfast this morning (Sherlock's choco-chip waffle and Nutella sandwich), I realised that it would be just like Sherlock to want something sweet like that on the rare occasion of when he's hungry. This little one-shot is the result, as I've been itching to write more fanfiction lately. I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to locate the real Baker Street on the map and researching shops nearby. Don't judge me for it. Definitely not my best work, I was more focused on the story than the writing itself. Hope you enjoyed it (and aren't drooling at the thought of Nutella too much)!**

**A/N (from 28 April, 2015): I'm getting ready to wipe my old laptop, clearing files from ages ago, saving the important ones, et al. In the process, I found some actually decent fics I wrote when I was 16. So for your enjoyment, I guess I'm publishing again? This one is unmodified save for approximately 6 minor grammatical edits. Over the course of the next indeterminate span of time, I may be uploading some of my other fics (the ones that need heavier editing). Enjoy! PS I now see that Sherlock is acting rather like a pregant woman: craving all sorts, moodswings... If you could make any character analogy of Sherlock, it's quite an accurate one, innit? ;) PPS Goodness, my author's note section is as long as the bloody story. Oopsies. Okay, now I'm really done writing.**


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